Chapter Text
IN WHICH A PITCH BECOMES A KNIGHT
BAZ
The memory of the moment I decided to become a knight is imprinted in my mind forever.
It was a feast like any other. The village was in the great hall for a knighting. My father, Lord Grimm-Pitch, and Lady Daphne, sat at the head table with myself and the Mage Cadwallader on either side. At thirteen, I was more interested in books than another boring ceremony and was sneakily reading under the table, though my family despised taking precious literature out of the library. I was a “sickly” child, and liked the tales of adventure and grand romances better than playing with others my age or paying attention to politics, despite the looming expectation that I would be taking my father’s place some day.
The music was merry. The food was festive. Laughter and happy shouting filled the hall with joyous sound. Simon Snow, a boy my age with hair that seemed to catch the light and glow like a halo as any saint in a church window, smiled with apple-red cheeks at all the food. He was an orphan under the wing of the Mage, a bastard who got lucky enough to be taken in by our townspeople. He was often dirty and picked fights with children bigger than him, and he was far below me in status, so I hadn’t figured out quite yet why my eyes were drawn to him when he was about. Truly, if we talked we argued terribly. He thought of me as some kind of spoiled noble child with a pampered life cut out clearly for him, and he wasn’t much wrong, which infuriated me. He was stubborn and hardheaded, led by a sense of morality that certainly didn’t come from the Mage.
When the knights stood and formed their ranks, he looked up at them with such awe that it inspired my own that day. Since I spent more time inside the castle walls than he, I knew what they were really like - cocky nobility, filled with self importance, and drunkards half the time. Rarely did I see signs of the supposed chivalry and humility legends claimed they possessed.
But among these knights - the knights that would be granted their titles and knighthood by my father and the Mage this very night - one stood out against them starkly.
She was tall, broad-shouldered, and powerful. A simple goatherd from a largely unimportant bloodline, but she would be knighted because of genuine chivalry and skill. She had been asked by the Mage himself to take up arms against the raiders approaching from the East. Ebeneza Petty, a simple goatherd. My father never would have entertained it. I knew she had denied the Mage several times, but in the end she caved and single-handedly protected some of our farmland and families with simply her heft and some rudimentary magic she possessed, despite no training.
Ebb would soon return to her life as a goatherd, rejecting the land that came with her earned title, citing the reminder a life of knighthood caused of her lost brother. But I will never forget the way our village, even nobility such as my parents, treated her long after. Or the way that Simon Snow shined so brightly when looking up at her. She was no longer Ebb Petty, goatherd. She was Ebeneza the Giving, Honourable Knight of Watford. She was but a peasant - but became so, so much more.
She made me believe that all the stories about noble knighthood could be real.
(Maybe this was how I could make up for who I am. What I am.)
Before, I had thought my life would be spent among books and scrolls, in libraries and schools when not sitting near my father’s throne during political talks. Now, I dove into being the most well-rounded knight I could. I took up drawing and painting and poetry, learned to sew, watched tournaments and trainings avidly, studied archery. I voraciously tore through all the literature we had on knightly legends and heroes, and pushed away the cold knowledge that such tales were never actually meant for someone like me.
My father was none too pleased with my sudden turnabout. Knighthood may be an honourable and noble profession, but it was still a position lower than most in our titles would aspire to. Many Pitches and Grimms had been knights, but none that could be dukes, lords, or princes.
Additionally, my father worried about my “condition”. I was always treated as some sickly boy, but the truth was my condition could make me easily stronger and more skilled than my peers. If I was built for training and fighting, which my father strongly doubted. He had never seen me as anything but “ill”.
My aunt Fiona despised my obsession as well, thinking of knights as lower nobility who were grabbing at a false title available for them. To her, they were either brainless oafs who fought for the highest offer, or guileless pansies who could barely lift a sword. She wasn’t wrong, of course - but the life I could lead with a noble bloodline meant I could pick what causes I wanted to pursue and visit with various kingdoms while travelling. I could influence politics of the whole land, not just my mother’s piece of it, if I was clever and smooth enough. I could help people. Do big things. Be more than a glorified mercenary with a title.
Simon Snow was the only other peer in town who was more interested in knights than I, playing swords or javelins nearly every time I saw him, or learning how to take care of horses and build fires.
I remember playing “knights” with him and other village children he roped into his games. Often, we would go “hunting” in the woods for dark creatures. He became obsessed with vampires when he found a deer once I hadn’t disposed of properly, convinced that one was hiding deep in the forest beyond where the nymphs lived. (I stuck to rats in the castle for months after.) Those memories feel somewhat soured now.
His knighthood fascination faded as he spent more days in the Mage’s private tower or with Ebb’s goats. When I thought of knightly goodness, I always pictured his glowing hair and bright freckled cheeks, and the way he’d easily best me in our stick-sword fights, or share what little food he had with friends. But he grew worn down and distracted by his duties, as I saw of many townspeople as we aged. I followed my education, and he followed the path laid in front of him, and we grew apart.
Eventually, when my father realised how serious my intentions were, he had me shown how to fight and ride. He said he’d only let me pursue being a squire if I could hold my own in hand to hand, sword, and wand. He pushed harder on my other studies in the arts, history, and politics as well, but I never complained. My mother would have wanted this kind of education for me anyway - she saw herself as equal parts a scholar and Lady.
Once, soon after I started my additional lessons, Simon Snow challenged me to a duel with stick swords, like he always had. I was walking with my nose in a book near the tree at Ebb Petty’s farm.
“Pitch!” He called to me and threw the stick, hoping to catch me unawares. But I had of course intentionally wandered down this path out of the village, and expected this, and had faster reflexes than he knew. I caught the stick mid air, and worried I had acted too quickly, but he just laughed and drew up his own stick.
We may have been too old to play swords like this now, but out here there was no one else to see.
I can still recall with perfect clarity the look on his face when I won, twisting his stick out of his hand with my own. It was a move I had learned recently from my teacher, a skilled sword fighter from Spain.
And then I won again. And again .
I had never won to Snow before, unless we played dirty. I could see him growing angrier as my skill finally outmatched his bullheadedness, his power. His magic, powerful but directionless without training, smelled like smoke and fire.
I knocked his stick away again, and he impulsively grabbed my stick from my own hand and threw it away.
“Tired of losing, Snow?” I drawled. I hoped he would rise to the challenge of fighting me, and hadn’t yet considered that it may be difficult for him to do so.
“It’s easy to win when you have some posh world renowned sword fighter to personally instruct you, and time to spend on squire training.”
My shoulders stiffened in defence. He always managed to go right for what I felt the most guilt about. I sneered, and regretted it immediately.
“Not all of us were made to be errand boys and shovel goat shit, Snow.”
He was stricken. And then his face pulled into a cold anger, and he turned away.
“Come on, Snow. Let’s do another.” I tried to save it, I did, but it was too late.
He shrugged, and walked until he closed the door to Ebb’s hut.
The pit of me felt like stone. I picked up my book and walked away.
We didn’t sword fight again after that.
I stopped being able to look Snow in the eyes when we crossed paths in the courtyard. I couldn’t risk seeing the resentment or hurt that must be on his face as I so easily rode on towards what he dreamed of. Especially knowing that most knights couldn’t hold a candle to how chivalrous and good Simon Snow truly was, least of all me.
Then, we’re adolescents, nearly adults. We bicker on the rarer occasions that we see each other for more than a minute, and there’s an edge to it now.
My father starts allowing me out with real knights as a squire. I get to travel, camp outside, study languages. (Most knights seem more impressed by my control of magic than how I use it on the more unpleasant tasks.)
When I’m 18, I fight my first dark creature one-on-one. I’d encountered them plenty before, even in attacks, but I usually didn’t get involved. I didn’t kill it, but I wounded it and used a spell that caught some of the Ent’s leaves on fire. It was distracted enough that one of the knights struck it with an ax until one of its branches broke off. It groaned, and then the knight spoke a spell from the Holy Bible about the burning bush and it caught aflame. I shot backwards so the fire wouldn’t spark me with it, and the Ent turned black and trembled into ash.
The knight looked down at me and grinned before helping me up.
A chill shot through me about what would happen if a knight discovered what I was. And at the realization that extermination of dark creatures was part of the job - we had just encroached on their territory, and they were defending themselves. It did not matter that they had done no wrong.
This is what it meant to be a hero? To be chivalrous?
That was the first time I ever thought, with fear, that maybe I couldn’t handle being a knight, and that I’d made a terrible mistake.
I could barely kill vermin for survival, but this.
“All right, Lord Pitch?” One of the other knights had asked me. I could feel all their eyes on me. I knew they saw a boy playing knight when they looked at me, a bored and spoiled aristocrat.
I swallowed, raised my head, and cocked an eyebrow at them.
I resolved then to do whatever I could to get out of any combat or killing. I couldn’t control the way other knights acted, and I couldn’t out myself, but I refused to kill if it wasn’t survival or someone’s life was at stake.
“Perfectly fine. What are we waiting for?”
I strode off towards the horses, shoving my hands deep in my pockets lest someone see how much they shook.
* * *
I grew impatient and weary. I excelled at my duties and was such an asset to our travels that there was often confusion over who are the knights and who are the squires. The knights I travelled with often sought little more than booze, glory, and sex. They got in my way more often than not, in my personal quest to understand the hierarchies and politics in the various regions we travelled.
Finally, we receive word that we’re summoned home to assist with the havoc some nearby fires have caused. We know I’m likely to be knighted upon my return. Finally, I’ll be able to have more freedom and control. I don’t intend on having a party, as is typically custom. I travel better alone.
The nights stretch on forever as I think of the comforts of home. Being able to sleep in a bed again, have a bath, hunt without looking over my shoulder. See that golden halo of curls, and hope for the bright smile that will fill me with warmth better than any sunshine or campfire could.
SIMON
Baz is going to be knighted tonight.
They haven't declared it yet - Lord Grimm-Pitch almost never says who will, he's dramatic that way - but everyone knows it's been coming for a while. There's always gossip in the courtyard and taverns about his travels. It's near impossible to say what's true or false.
They say he stopped two villages from going to war. That he burnt an Ent to ashes, even though they're usually peaceful. That dark creatures flee when his party comes into a town and he walks with a goblin head on a spike as a warning.
(I'm not sure I believe that. When we were boys, he'd turn shockingly white at the sight of blood and run away, covering his mouth.)
I always listen to the stories, even though most of them are probably bollocks. It’s comforting to know he’s still out there, and we’d probably hear otherwise.
I’m restless. The Mage doesn’t want to see me right now and if I’m around Ebb she’ll want to talk about what’s bothering me. Besides, the goats don’t like it when I’m agitated.
That means I’m outside in the courtyard when the knights come home.
A small crowd and a troupe of musicians lead the entourage to the castle. All the squires are leading the horses and their knightley riders. All the squires except Baz, who rides on his horse looking more knightley than all of them. They all look somewhat worn down and exhausted, but not Baz. His posture is as proper as ever, his hair down for once, in perfect waves (I swear he must spell it), and he even wears chainmail and a sword like the other knights.
I find myself following a few paces behind, just to keep looking at him and see if there’s anything out of place, a scratch or even a spot of dirt. He hardly looks at the crowd. It’s a shock when he looks right at me. I pause. He squints for a moment, and then nods slowly at me. I nod back before I can help myself. I watch them continue to the inner castle without me, feeling strange. I’m not sure what that was.
I can tell the Mage doesn’t want me to go to the ceremony tonight, but it’s Baz and we haven’t had a knighting in forever. I sneak into the hall late and make to sit at a rowdy back table, but it doesn’t matter. The Mage isn’t even here. Which is unusual, for a knighting, but I figure he’s probably dealing with some of the stuff from the fire.
The knights are all seated at a front table, but I don’t get a chance to see Baz.
Lord Malcolm stands, and the hall grows quiet. The candlelight rises with magic.
It’s time.
“Welcome all who have come to celebrate and bear witness to the knighting of the future protectors and servants of our fair kingdom. They have proven worthiness of this honorable title and nobility through acts of commendable service, dedicated life training, or often both.”
Lord Malcolm pauses a moment too long. Usually, he keeps these brief, and says more or less the same thing every time. What’s really special is the knights themselves, and the titles they get. Plus, the food is always better.
“Today, there is one knight in particular who will be bringing pride to our domain and the Grimm-Pitch family name. This knight has repeatedly shown strength, perseverance, and most of all, chivalry. Our late Lady Natasha Grimm-Pitch, may Morgana rest her soul, would be proud of the man he has proven himself to be.”
Lord Malcolm sniffs and gives a curt nod. His face doesn’t twitch a muscle, but it’s still the most emotion I’ve seen him give at one of these. I wish I could see Baz’s face, but there’s too many people and it’ll be obvious now if I stand up to sit closer.
Luckily, I don’t have to. Lord Malcolm gestures the knights in front to form a line.
Baz looks cool, but not quite his usual mask. His eyebrow is turned down and a corner of his lips raised in a half-smirk. But I know his smirks better than anyone, and it’s restrained, like he can’t help himself.
My stomach twists with the strange feeling again.
[Baz’s Title of Knighthood? Baz the Hopeful/Wise/Passionate/Peacemaker/Willful/Persistent/Persuasive/]
“Countrymen. You have been chosen for knighthood because of your dedication and good deeds. If you wish to accept this offer, let it be known.”
“I!” The knights-in-waiting shout to the crowd and Lord Malcolm.
“Very well. Kneel before your Lord.”
The knights-in-waiting kneel.
I bite the inside of my lip. I wanted this to my future so badly. I can practically feel the cool stone tile of the floor on my knee.
“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.” Lord Malcolm comes to stand in front of him with the Sword of Mages resting in his hands.
I feel a tinge of annoyance at the Mage. He was here long enough to conjure the sword for Lord Malcolm but not to stay for the ceremony? It feels wrong to watch the Lord wield it in his place. As the Mage, it’s one of his main duties when he’s here. It seems especially rude that it’s the ceremony the Lord’s son and direct heir is being knighted at. I have a hard enough time defending him from gossip already. It’s like he doesn’t bother with the way some of his actions are seen sometimes.
“Do you swear to uphold truth, protection, and service in the name of your lordship and the greater Watford?”
“I do.”
“Very well.”
Lord Malcolm motions the sword around his head to both of his shoulders. (It’s obvious he’s never held a sword before. I guess Baz didn’t get it from his father.)
“Rise. You are now Sir Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch the Clever, Honourable Knight of Watford, for the work you have done with other noble lands and keeping the peace with dark creatures .”
Baz stands. His jaw clenches ever so slightly, like he’s holding his breath. His hair is still down, but with braids in it, and he’s wearing a set of decorative armour that was clearly made for him, with flowery embellishments and raised patterns. A cape rests on his shoulders - flame resistant, usually. For fighting the occasional creature.
My stomach sinks.
He looks like a royal knight. One of legends, prestige, chivalry.
He’s done it, finally. He’s a knight, like he always wanted, and now I’ll be lucky to see him a few times a year. I’m sure he’ll travel, learn languages, and leave us all behind.
And if he ever knew what I was hiding...
Lord Malcolm moves on to the others, but my eyes stay on Baz. How tall he stands, how tightly he holds himself. He stares ahead at no one, but instead of his usual bored expression, he looks fierce. Ready for a fight.
He still looks like the Baz I knew as a child, but there’s something more guarded about him now. More like a cat, sleek and ready to strike at any given moment.
I wonder what put that look in his eye.
The crowd rises and cheers. Townspeople surround Baz to clap him on the shoulder. The music swells, and I lose sight of him among the merriment.
That’s all right.
I slip out, chest tight and stomach grumbling hungrily, but I can’t stand to stay for another moment more.
